


The Victor's Spoils

by Skalidra



Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [4]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex, Knotting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Marco, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: After the final battle at Xiangyang, when Kublai Khan has finally managed the most important step in his bid to control all of China, he takes some time to enjoy reclaiming one of his very favorite pets. Marco, however, is fresh from his short-lived battle with Jia Sidao, and in no condition to endure the celebrations of a victorious alpha.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So, this is the last bit of this I have written. I may write more at some point, I may not, I honestly don't know. I'm most fond of this one though. XD Enjoy! (This is, by the way, way nicer than either of the other stories; Marco is much better now and about ninety percent more willing.)

Jia Sidao has fallen. The Walled City is his, bent to his will, crushed beneath the strength of his horses and the heels of his army. The victory thrums through his veins like the finest airag, thick and heavy and lighting his gut aflame with passion.

After handing out orders as to the management of the sacking of the city he retires back to the camp, leaving his army to their celebrations to do so himself, with more enjoyable diversions. It only takes sending one soldier to have the Latin brought to his ger, as he removes his armor and settles back into more comfortable clothing to wait.

It only takes a minute; the boy followed him back from the city. Soon enough the flap of his ger is pushed open, and the Latin ducks in. Still in armor, spattered in blood and dirt, with tangled hair and sword at his hip. The picture of a warrior, and he gives an indulgent smile at the sight. His little Latin omega; grown to a soldier.

"You summoned me, Sire?" the boy asks, standing just inside his ger, right hand to his heart as he inclines his head.

"Come here," he commands, holding a hand out to call the boy to him.

Marco obeys, crossing the room and not pulling away when he grabs at the boy's clothing, pulling him closer. He yields easily to being pulled down and over his lap, legs spreading wide to accommodate it, the sword tapping against his leg. Those blue eyes slip shut for a moment when he grips the boy's waist, bringing him more firmly down.

"You did well today," he praises, lowering a hand to remove the boy's sword and cast it aside. "Proved yourself loyal, Latin. Saved my son's life."

The boy looks a touch embarrassed. "Byamba saved his life, Sire; I only called the soldiers in afterwards."

"True. But you and him led the charge past the Cricket Minister's black powder, did you not?"

"Yes, Sire," the boy says, inhaling sharply as he tugs loose the armor over his chest, stripping him layer by layer. "It seemed the only course of action."

"Which makes you brave." He pauses his hands for a moment so he can lift one, cupping one side of the boy’s face. It’s immediately leaned into, the boy’s head turning so that lips find his palm as those wide eyes shut, expression on his face easing into peace, to acceptance. “My clever, loyal, Latin. Come, celebrate with me.”

The boy shivers, drawing back just a fraction and opening his eyes to look at him once again. “I am… filthy, Sire. I can clean and come back, for—”

“Do you think I care for a little blood?” he demands, and then tugs the Latin’s head down so he can claim that tempting mouth, before it gets a chance to respond. A careful hand braces against his chest, but the boy yields to his touch like he always does, moving into it, opening for his tongue and whining so prettily when he takes what has been given.

The Latin is so much more honest in his reactions than any of his harem. Loud, responsive; so very innocent in so many ways. Many of the court seem taken with him. Almost none have been given the opportunity to touch the boy, and he does not deny that it pleases him, in a way.

He sits up, jostling Marco more firmly into his lap before he allows the kiss to end. The boy curls fingers into his clothing, and he gives a playful growl, taking those narrow shoulders in his hands and squeezing down, shifting forward to push Marco onto his back, to take him amidst the fur and comfort of his ger.

Except the Latin cries out and _jerks_ away from his left hand. Clearly in _pain_.

He stares as the boy pants, head lowered, right arm trembling where it’s been tucked close to his side. “I— I am sorry, my Khan,” are the strained words. “Please, do not mind—”

“You are hurt,” he interrupts. “Who did this?”

The boy trembles, but answers, “Jia Sidao, Sire. I was the first to find him.”

He frowns, and divests the boy of the rest of the clothing covering his torso so he can see. He’s cautious about pulling the underlayer off, and very carefully separates the tie and pushes the cloth apart, easing it first off the good arm, and then slowly the bad one. He still gets a clenched jaw and a small whimper, despite his efforts.

His jaw tightens in turn, as his gaze slides over the bruises on his boy.

A spread of them down the side of his throat, barely low enough to be hidden by the clothes he wears. Thin bands of them around his wrists, as if he was grabbed and held. A patch just above his stomach, from a hard impact. But, worst, the sharp bloom of dark bruises along the top and back of the boy’s right shoulder; hot to the touch and swollen, when he raises a hand to brush across it. No wonder the boy drew so sharply away from him.

“Have you seen the healers?” he asks, and the boy shakes his head.

“They have true wounds to attend to, Sire. Sifu assured me that it will pass long before we have reached Cambulac.” A glance upwards to meet his gaze, something cautious but still steady inside his expression. “I trust his judgment, Sire.”

He grunts reluctant agreement. “I should have separated his head from his shoulders myself. Ordered the monk to deliver him to my hands instead of ending him. I could have seen he was punished for this.”

Marco’s mouth curls into a small, pleased smile, flush darkening those pale cheeks in embarrassment. “The thought is appreciated, Sire, but seeing you in victory was balm enough.”

“Good boy,” he praises, combing the curled, tangled hair back from his face. “Tell me of the fight.”

“It was… short,” his Latin answers, leaning into his hand. “He did not seem pleased to be challenged by—” A swallow, a sharp little flare of _anger_ in innocent blue eyes. “By a ‘European omega,’ as he put it.”

“The Chinese do not consider you equal,” he agrees. “Their mistake.”

The boy nuzzles his hand, breathing out against his skin, anger soothed away to soft pleasure once again. “He seemed undecided between killing me and putting me ‘in my place.’ Sifu intervened before a choice was made. Their fight was somewhat longer, and more evenly matched, but you know the outcome of that already.”

“Indeed. His arrogance brought his undoing, from what the monk told me.” He pulls at the boy’s hair, drawing him slightly to one side to bare the pale line of the uninjured side of his throat. “He would not know how to treat something like you; believing that you need to be hurt to know your place. There are better ways to show you where you belong.”

Eyes meet his, and the boy’s faint smile slips away. “I do know my place, Sire.”

He pauses, curious. “Oh? What is it then, Latin?”

The boy’s gaze is earnest as his left hand lifts, settling over the center of his chest and curling into the folds of his coverings. “My place is wherever you want me to be, my Khan,” his Latin says quietly. Honestly. “For as long as you want me.”

It is remarkable, really, how very contradictory his boy is. Volatile and vicious, according to every member of his khanate that has tried to touch him. But only ever obedient and sweet to him, apart from the times that he has misjudged the boy's loyalty, and condemned him for it. He isn't blind; the boy has had every opportunity to run, to return home or seek elsewhere to be accepted, but he never has. Not while he hunted assassins, not when he was sent to Xiangyang with a golden tablet, nor any of the hundreds of nights that he could have simply taken his horse and _gone_. The boy is… unfailingly loyal. Yusuf was right.

He pulls his Latin down so he can claim him once again, pleased at the declaration and at the knowledge that he owns the boy. Completely. Marco may choose to share a bed with Ahmad as well, but given how they circle each other it is still easy for him to believe that the boy is his alone, body and soul. He does not begrudge the boy finding pleasure elsewhere; he has not claimed him to be part of his harem, so he has very little right to tell the boy who he can or can't lie with.

There are rumors about Byamba as well (the boy has a taste for _power_ , is what they whisper), but those are easily disregarded. He has watched them together; the boy trusts his son _because_ of the lack of intention there. Byamba is polite, respectful, and has never tried to take the boy for his own. Therefore, he is allowed to touch. It is simple enough to see.

Marco pushes up against him, desperation clear in the press of his body, if not his words or the expression he had before. He loops an arm around the boy's waist, holding him close as he runs his other hand through that curled hair to angle the boy better. When he has finished mapping what the boy tastes like — the sweetness of an omega, the faint hint of blood, and an edge of smoke and sweat that is battlefield-earned — he allows him to breathe again, trailing his mouth down the side of the boy's neck.

"I do not like his marks upon your throat," he grumbles, and the boy shivers but only leans further into how he's holding his neck curved and bared.

"I will try not to get hit in the neck next time," Marco answers, and there is a sharply sarcastic edge that he snorts as he recognizes.

"You are spending too much time with that damned monk." He nips at the side of his throat, gauging sensitivity and finding it at a decent level; a twitch earned, but not a flinch. "Do not pick up his habits, boy."

The boy smiles, murmuring, “As you wish, my Khan.”

He huffs at the remaining edge of amusement, biting lightly at the boy’s throat, enough to draw a sigh before he pulls away. He releases the curls trapped between his fingers, so he can reach down and lift Marco by either side of his waist, setting him aside on the furs and pillows that make up the most comfortable part of his ger. Where he would have pushed his Latin down and taken him in celebration, likely many times through the night, if the Cricket Minister had not left one last wound behind before death.

“Stay,” he commands, squeezing that small waist between his hands for just a moment, before he lets go and climbs to his feet.

His boy obeys, looking up at him with calm blue eyes. He slides his fingers through that curled hair — so _different_ than any of the rest of those he claims as his — before he steps away and towards the opening of his ger. As he glances back, he sees another stretch of bruises diagonal across his pet’s back. He has seen enough to know the look and pattern of bruises caused by being thrown into something hard. Jia Sidao did not suffer enough in death; he’s sure of that.

He pulls his gaze away — he’ll examine every inch of his Latin soon, to know precisely how he hurts — and pushes aside the flap to step halfway out, into the warm air and celebratory mood of the rest of the camp. The two guards at his entrance turn half towards him, but remain silent until he straightens a touch.

“Fetch me heated water and cloth,” he commands. One inclines his head, and he ducks back into his ger, to return to his boy.

Marco is where he left him, head twisted partially over his uninjured shoulder to watch. The boy’s face is still speckled in blood; a contrast against the mostly clean, although bruised, skin of his back and torso. A contrast he enjoys, although he would enjoy it more if his Latin was not so injured, and he could reward the boy’s victory as he wishes to. Pinning him down, making him writhe and beg so prettily, in so many different languages, to be taken. The boy is still one of his very favorite pets; unique even in the manner of his obedience.

“Sire?” the boy asks, as he returns to sit beside him, facing the opposite direction. No direct question follows, so he ignores it and reaches out to cup the side of the boy’s face and pull his head over to rest on his shoulder.

“You showed great courage today,” he says, as the boy eases and relaxes into his side. “There are few of your gender who would ride into battle as you did, or lead such a charge.”

Marco shifts, nuzzling against his shoulder with a soft, pleased sound. Then, sounding amused again, says, “Khutulun comes to mind, Sire.”

He gives a sharp grunt. “My son has certainly chosen a prickly one to court. Khutulun would make a fine addition to my khanate, if he succeeds.” He looks down, stroking his thumb across the ridge of his boy’s cheekbone. “I have heard _you_ managed to take her, once. How was that?”

“I would not say that I took her so much as she took _me_ ,” the boy corrects, turning into the touch of his thumb and then back to his shoulder. “It was… enjoyable.” The tone is almost mischievous, and with a small grin he pushes the boy’s head back until those blue eyes raise to him, pale throat arched backwards.

“Is that the only word you can conjure?” he play-growls, and the boy’s mouth flickers into a smile.

“Highly… enjoyable?” The boy gives a quiet laugh, and he smiles as Marco’s head shifts back into his shoulder. “She was — _is_ — unlike any other omega I have ever met, Sire. At the time it was like a breath of fresh air, away from the staler threat of the alphas of the khanate. I thought she was one, at first. It was not until she approached me that I realized she was like me.”

“And then?”

Another laugh, softer this time, almost fond. “And then she wrestled me to the ground and had me, Sire. I was… far from unwilling, if a bit drunk at the time.”

"Do you enjoy other omegas, my Latin?"

The boy flushes, gaze rising to him for a quick moment before the boy admits, "Yes, Sire."

“Good.” He lowers his head to breathe in the boy’s scent, nose brushing his hair. “I would enjoy you with other omegas. Perhaps my Empress would like a turn with you, to ensure her _training_ has remained.” The boy shivers, breath catching, and he catches the very edge of a swell of desire in his scent. “Would you like that?” he tests, speaking softly. “To be caught between me and my Empress?”

“I— I am not sure—”

“Honesty, boy,” he points out; a brief reminder.

His boy breathes in, more deeply, and then answers, “Yes, Sire. I believe I would.”

He chuckles and runs his fingers back through the boy’s hair. “You have come far from the frightened little Latin boy I first acquired. I much prefer this clever warrior you have become; an omega any alpha of my court would be pleased to claim their own.”

“I do not want any other alpha, my Khan.” The boy speaks into his shoulder, muffled but still entirely understandable.

“Yes, I think most of them have learned that.” He gets a small laugh for that, and pats the boy’s head as he gives another play-growl, resisting the urge to lift the boy and sprawl him out across the furs. “ _My_ sweet boy; no other would dare to take my Latin from me, and you would never let them, would you?”

“No, Sire,” is the answer. “I am yours all but officially.”

The flap opens then, halting his response as a guard enters with a large basin in both hands. He grunts, tapping the floor at Marco’s back to indicate where he wants it. The guard is silent, and he feels his Latin’s head twist to look back, to see who has invaded their space, but there is no response, aggressive or otherwise. The water in the basin is steaming, and the cloth set beside it is hardy, useful material. It will do; he can dry the boy in something far softer and more luxurious when he is through.

“All but officially?” he repeats, once the guard has retreated again, and they are alone. “What is it you mean, Latin?”

“I am not one of your harem, nor your wives,” Marco points out, not sounding displeased, just factual. “If I were yours officially, in either of those positions, none would even try to touch me.”

He grunts out a breath, frowning a little bit. “Your talents would be wasted in my harem. You still belong to me, boy, no matter the titles you lack.”

The boy tilts his head up, looking up to meet his eyes. “You can own someone without possessing them, Sire.” He frowns a bit deeper, and those blue eyes flicker wide, as if realizing the weight of his words. “Apologies, Sire. I— I did not mean to imply— I am yours. Fully, my Khan. I only meant…” The boy swallows, gaze lowering for a moment in submission. “I only meant that I remember what it was like to be owned without the security of possession. By the laws of the khanate, you have no claim to me. It was not something I had any experience in.”

He comes to hate the West more with every piece of information he gleans from his Latin.

“What of your laws?” he asks, curious though he knows exactly where this path will lead. “Your homeland’s laws?”

To his surprise, his boy hesitates, _blushes_ , and then leans in to press a soft, delicate kiss to the side of his throat before pulling back. “I am yours, Sire. As the alpha closest in my family, I belonged to my father. He gave me to you, so I am yours. It has been… an interesting knowledge to have.”

“And one you have not shared,” he comments. There is more than a small part of him that is all too satisfied by hearing the boy so readily consent to ownership, but above that he has little thought but, “You do not simply trade people like property.”

Marco peers at him for a moment. “You have slaves, Khan.”

He scoffs, waves his free hand to dismiss the notion. “Not the same. A person is not destined for slavery simply by virtue of their birth; you should not have been given the worth of property based upon the genitals you happened to have.”

His boy flushes harder, embarrassed, but it only silences him for a moment. “I was valuable property, Sire, if that makes a difference?” He reaches down to retrieve a cloth and wet it in the heated water, as he grunts to tell the boy to continue. “I was— _am_ , the only heir of a successful merchant. I was raised properly by Venetian standards, partially among the nuns of a church close to my home, and I am very well educated. Not to be… _vain_ , my Khan, but I would have been considered quite a prize in my homeland. I could even have married into a noble family, if my father had provided the appropriate gifts upon negotiation.”

“You speak as though the possibility is a thing of the past,” he notes, as he brings the cloth up and carefully slides it across the back of the boy’s neck, brushing up against his hairline. “Are you not still all of those things?”

A pause, and then, slowly, his boy says, “I am, Sire. But I am no longer the pure, obedient omega that my homeland prizes. I have grown wild, apparently; those who would know the difference have commented on it.”

He suspects he knows who these people are — wishes briefly he had had them killed, instead of allowing his Latin to show mercy — and he dislikes that their commentary has made Marco show any doubt. He dislikes that his boy was ever caused unnecessary pain; he has grown from a terrified, shy, mouthy little thing into a true omega, and no one should ever hurt him for that progress. If he comes across the boy’s father again, and can pin even the slightest of crimes on him, he’ll have the abusive, controlling man killed. There will not be mercy a second time.

Instead of telling the boy any of that, he reaches over and lifts him into his lap, curling that smaller form against his chest and holding him with one arm. “You are far from wild,” he reassures the boy, as he wets the cloth again. “You are no Khutulun, nor my Chabi. For a Mongol you are quite soft.”

“For a Venetian I’m far too hard,” the boy counters. “No omega of my culture would ever think to be part of a war.”

“Then I am pleased you have grown out of your culture. Be still, Latin.”

He lifts the cloth to wipe over Marco’s jaw, then up along his cheek where blue eyes flutter shut and allow him to clean the rest of the boy’s face with no interference. He does not at all mind the speckles of blood, but it is satisfying to care for the boy in such a tangible way. It is not often that he denies his instincts when it comes to his boy, and right now what he desires is to protect and care for his wounded Latin. Pain is tricky to ease, but he can at least be sure the boy is clean. That is a start.

The boy's neck and hands are the only other things truly touched by the battle, and he cleans those first — passing gently over the bruises blooming across his skin — before returning to the more general areas touched only by sweat and the hints of occasional dirt. Marco relaxes into his chest, head resting against his collar. The boy gives a soft moan when he brings the warm, wet cloth over his injured shoulder, and he pauses to let it rest there for a bit.

The boy breathes out against his chest, shifting into him and lightly grasping at the folds of his clothing. He takes a small breath in through his nose, scenting the boy, and finds him calm. No sickly note of fear, or pained distress. The scents of smoke and blood still cling to him, but those are familiar; almost pleasant. His boy smells of war.

He gives a low, soft rumble of a growl, letting his fingers slide away from the cloth on Marco's shoulder and trace down his chest instead. "I would have you, my Latin."

Marco looks up, eyes just as calm as his scent, just as accepting. "As you wish, my Khan."

It is little work to get the boy stripped entirely bare, and have him spread his legs across the width of his lap, resting back against his chest. One hand he slides down between the Latin's legs, fingers skirting at the edges of his entrance, the other he lifts to tease the boy's nipples, as he lowers his mouth to the uninjured side of that pale throat. His boy is responsive even now; arching forward into his hands with another soft moan. He coaxes the boy to wetness with the ease of practice, breathing in the sweetness of that desire as he breaches the boy with his fingers. Gentle, but insistent. Marco folds easiest to pleasure.

His Latin makes the sweetest sounds; soft gasps and moans, with the occasional higher-pitched whine when he does something exactly correct. He waits until they rise in volume, until the boy accepts three of his fingers, to ease his attentions off.

"Rise for a moment," he murmurs, as he slips his fingers free.

He chuckles when his Latin lifts up onto both knees, straightening away from him, but certainly doesn't make a move to actually stand. That will do well enough. He shrugs out of his top, discarding it to the side, and then pushes the bottom half of his clothing as far off as he can, with Marco in the way. He's about to tell the boy to actually get up, so he can do the rest, when the Latin takes over, tugging his clothing down and off of his legs. He admires the curve of that pale back, and the way his boy slips into presenting for just a moment, at the end of his task.

Tempting, but he has no desire to hurt his boy, and taking him on his hands and knees, with one injured shoulder, would certainly do that.

"C'mere," he mock-growls, tugging the boy back by his hips, until he's flush against his chest once again. Marco gives a small laugh, rubbing back against his chest and reaching up with his more mobile arm to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, for grounding. "Take it slowly," he commands, as he reaches down and positions his cock to brush against the wetness of the boy's entrance. "Now."

Marco sinks down, giving a small whine as he stretches to take the head, and then slowly fills himself with the rest. He wraps his hands around the boy's hips, controlling the descent in reaction to the way the boy feels around him. Pausing when he clenches, easing forward again when he relaxes and allows it. He is aware — and pleased — that his harem talk about the size of his cock among themselves, and he would never wish to give any of them cause to fear his touch. He could have spent more time preparing his Latin, and coaxed him further open so he could take him more roughly, but there is no need. He does not intend any of this to be rough.

Marco's thighs are faintly trembling when he is fully seated, his scent thick with arousal and his breath coming in soft pants. He strokes across those thighs, then slides his hands further up. One he wraps around the boy's cock, prompting an immediate gasp and a sharp clench around him. The second he lifts to take Marco's jaw in hand, angling them both so he can claim the boy's mouth, unhurried but thoroughly. He considers bringing his Latin to an early release, and then coaxing a second one from him, but pushes the thought aside. There will be plenty of time to enjoy his Latin on the way back to Cambulac, in any manner he chooses.

(He is tempted to bring the boy into Xiangyang and take him sitting in that throne, the spoils of his victory around him. A matter to think on before the army leaves.)

"Good boy," he murmurs, when he allows his Latin a chance to breathe outside of the kiss. "You have not forgotten the feel of me."

Marco shivers, then responds, "The memory is nothing compared to the reality. I—” A pause, gaze flickering downwards, and then fingers dig into the back of his neck as the boy finds his courage. "I have missed this, Sire. Greatly."

He doubts the boy's words are solely tied to the physical act of being taken, but he does not need to pry deeper meaning from them. Marco has missed him; that is the important truth behind his words.

"There is no other like me?" he baits, with a small grin.

The boy flexes around him, eyes closing for a moment as his back curves in a small arch. "No, Sire. Never."

He hums his satisfaction into the boy's mouth as he takes it again, moving his hands back to those hips so he can guide the boy into the rock of motion, drawing him up into shallow rises and falls. Nothing deep, nothing hard, just the pleasure of movement and the enjoyment of how his boy sounds muffled beneath the claim of his tongue and lips. He takes most of the weight on his arms, so Marco can relax into his touch and not strain any of his injuries.

It is hardly a rush to completion, but still sweet in a way that he has not recently indulged in. Even before the march and recent battle. He has not been in a mood to be sweet, not when the taste of betrayal lingered heavy in the back of his throat, and vengeance ate his mind apart. Not when every day reminded him that his Latin had been the cause of so much death.

Now he knows better. He still doubts that Yusuf was truly behind the things he claimed, but he knows now that Marco was not behind them _either_. His Latin is loyal. Always was.

“ _Sire_ ,” Marco breathes among the sounds, almost into his ear.

He nuzzles against the boy’s throat, gathering a bit of it between his teeth to suck a bruise into the pale skin. If his boy must bear marks from others, he will bear marks from him as well. Kinder ones. The boy belongs to him.

The end comes slow, and Marco’s arrives first. Shuddering, tightening, nails digging into the back of his neck as his boy cries out. He bites sharper at the neck before his teeth, grinding the shivering boy against him to allow Marco to feel entirely full as he releases. The contractions push him further towards that same end, and he tightens his grip on his Latin’s hips to push harder into him.

His knot comes swiftly, and he takes only a few more shallow thrusts before pulling the boy flush against him and letting it settle. Relaxed from his release, Marco takes the stretch of his knot with nothing more than a soft cry, and he growls into the boy’s throat as his own release takes him. The pleasure is a slow, rising tide of a thing, sliding through his gut and blood to heat him from the inside out. Breaking in crests as he empties his seed into the boy, holding him tight.

When the initial rush is past, when his mind returns to him beyond the need to hold the boy close, he carefully inclines backwards, further into the mound of pillows. Marco gives a small gasp, but doesn’t stop him. The hand tracing along the side of his neck, in fact, says that his boy is firmly in the grasp of the knotting’s haze. He never has shaken that endearing period of submissive neediness.

He reaches over and collects his robe from the floor, drawing it over Marco’s chest, tucking it in up around the boy’s throat. Draping the boy in his scent, which earns him a pleased, tired hum of sound. He chuckles, and reaches for some of the furs to drag over them. Marco rubs against him, legs uncurling to bend beneath the blanket of the furs, resting more easily against his chest.

He circles his arms around the boy, pressing a kiss to the boy’s temple before he says, “When you have healed, we shall celebrate properly. Many times throughout a night.”

His boy gives another hum, and his voice is hazy when he responds, “Whatever you wish, my Khan.”

“Until then,” he adds, “you will join me in my ger every night. I would remind the world that you are mine. Only mine.”

His Latin smiles, gripping at his neck. “ _Yes_ , Sire.”


End file.
